Page 15 of The Frog Prince

“Friday?”

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? My brain has stopped processing language. Aimee’s making sounds, and I have no idea what she’s saying. Instead I’m trying to put a face with Tom Lehman. Tom. Thomas. Thomas Lehman. It’s a name that smacks of success. And I try to remember the group surrounding Olivia last night. There were quite a few guys… “Brown hair?” I hazard.

“Yes.”

That was an easy guess. Everybody last night was brunette—Asian, Latino, African-American, Caucasian. “Brown eyes?”

“No, blue. I’m pretty sure they’re blue.”

Brown hair, blue eyes. Reasonably attractive. “Is he tall?”

Aimee stalls. He’s not tall. “Is he short?” I persist.

“No. Not short. Just not ultra-tall.”

That means he’s short. And he’s probably a stockbroker or investment banker—two types I don’t have much in common with. “What does he do?”

“He’s an institutional trader.”

Stockbroker. Great. “Aimee, I don’t know if this is such a good idea. I’m not really dating yet.”

“It’s just drinks, Holly.”

“Yeah, but he’s going to think drinks are a date.”

“Not if you buy the drinks.”

My mouth opens, closes. I have to think about that. And while I’m thinking about Aimee’s reasoning, she’s focused on her mission. “So can I give him your number?”

“Aimee—”

“How about he just calls you there, at work?”

“I don’t—”

“Olivia won’t care. She gets personal calls all the time.”

I’m feeling pressed. Panicked. I don’t remember Tom Lehman, and although I’m flattered he’d like to have drinks with me, I can’t help wondering about his taste.

I saw myself yesterday. I know what he was looking at. It wasn’t my best day, not at all. And if he liked that…

“Let me just have him call. You two work it out.” Aimee’s rushing along, sensing my retreat. “I don’t really want to be in the middle of this anyway. I was just doing him a favor, and if you don’t want to go out with him, just tell him. He’s a nice guy. He’ll understand.”

“But—”

“Tell Olivia I’ll give her a ring in a bit. Bye.”

Click. Aimee’s hung up. I return the phone to the base and think, she’s good. She’s really good. I can see why she’s the fund-raising director for the Met Museum. She’d get people to part with their money in no time.

And now I get the opportunity to reject Tom Lehman to his face. Or his phone. Which in these days of wireless technology seem to be one and the same.

Tom calls at five minutes before three, just as David, Olivia’s boss, is summoning us to an emergency meeting.

“Leather and Lace Ball,” Olivia mouths as she passes my desk, arms laden with folders, laptop computer, and more. Even she’s looking brittle. David doesn’t call many meetings and rarely insists on a whole-company turnout.

“I’m coming,” I say, gathering my own folders and notepads and taking Tom Lehman off hold. “This is Holly.”

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